So Jacques told her how after his first rebuff Monsieur Troqueville had for a time ceased to pester Ariane with his addresses, and had found balm for his hurt vanity in pretending to his tavern companions that his success with Ariane had been complete, and that he held her heart in the hollow of his hand. He had almost come to believe this himself, when one evening his friends in the tavern, who had of course never believed his story, had insisted on seeing Ariane in the flesh. It was in vain that Monsieur Troqueville had furiously reiterated that ‘the lady being no common bawd, but exceeding dainty of her favours, would never stoop to such low company as theirs.’ The company was obdurate, reiterating that unless they saw her with their own eyes they would hold his ‘Chimène’ to be but a ‘chimère,’ and that like Troy in Euripides’ fable, it was but for a phantom lady that he burned. Finally, Monsieur Troqueville, goaded beyond all endurance, vowed that the lady would be with them ere an hour was passed. The company agreed that if he did not keep his word he would have to stand drinks all round and kiss their grim Huguenot hostess, while if Ariane appeared within an hour they would give him as brave a petite-oie as their joint purses could afford. (At the words ‘petite-oie’ Madeleine went pale.) Once outside the tavern Monsieur Troqueville gave way to despair, and Jacques was so sorry for him that although he felt certain the business would end in ridicule for them both, he rushed to Ariane’s house to see if he could move her to pity. Fortunately he found her alone and bored—and took her fancy. To cut a long story short, before the hour was up, amid the cheers of the revellers and the Biblical denunciations of the hostess, Ariane made her epiphany at the tavern and saved Monsieur Troqueville’s face. After that Jacques went often to see Ariane, and delivered the love-letters he carried from Monsieur Troqueville, not to her but to her ancient duenna, in whose withered bosom he had easily kindled a flame for his uncle. Finally, having promised him a meeting with his lady, he had thrown him into the arms of the duenna.
When Jacques had finished his story, Madeleine, who had gazed at him with a growing horror in her eyes, said slowly,—
‘To speak truth, you seem to me compact of cruelty.’ At once he looked penitent. ‘No, Chop, ’tis not my only humour. One does not hold Boisrobert and the other writers of Comedy to be cruel in that they devise droll situations for their characters.’
‘That is another matter.’
‘Well, maybe you are in the right. ’Twas a scurvy trick I played him, and I am ashamed. Are you grievously wroth with me, Chop?’
‘I can hardly say,’ she answered and, her eyes wandering restlessly over the room, she twisted her hands in a way she had when her nerves were taut. ‘There are times when I am wont to wonder ... if haply I do not somewhat resemble my father,’ she added with a queer little laugh.
The idea seemed to tickle Jacques. She looked at him angrily.
‘You hold then that there is truth in what I say?’ and try as she would she could not get him to say that there was not.